Atonement
by sassyintheshire
Summary: With the help of his sister (OC), Sherlock leads John to clues surrounding his suicide in an attempt to help John move on and cope. Yet coping is a dangerous, messy process, and soon all three are caught in a web of deceit and attachment that they cannot unravel.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I recently read over this prologue and realized how confusing it is. I apologize in advance; please know that I'm working on revising this, so keep an eye out for a revised prologue soon! (So just bear with me through this portion and don't judge my writing capabilities until you've read the first real chapter.)**

Light danced through the window panes, across the tabletop, danced lightly around the empty cups long since drained of their contents. This light, at once white and hot and bright, at another moment dull and grave, played with its surroundings, creating shadows and flickers so unsure of themselves and their fleeting existences.

These events were interrupted by the sudden creaking of the front door, for which he was glad. When Sherlock Holmes began to contemplate the trivial uncertainties of light, certainly his own existence had reached its lowest point.

Slow footsteps entered the room, stepped behind his turned back, and waited.

With the footsteps came a voice. "Are you going to tell me?"

A pause. "What could you possibly want to know?

"You can't blame me for my interest in his welfare-not when your own interest is so evident and obvious to everyone."

"Everyone sees what they like, and so do you."

"Don't make me ordinary. You know better."

A flinch at "ordinary," and then silence.

At this, the footsteps became a woman, the woman became a face, and that face appeared, taut and pulled with the typical stubbornness and worry. "You're too obvious to fool me. Surely the brain which can assess a man's age, marital status, occupation, family history, medical condition, and idiosyncrasies in a matter of milliseconds can detect"-with special emphasis-"a simpleton's feelings."

"He's not a simpleton." The reply was immediate, fiery, and instantly regretted.

"Well, then." The woman's smile should have been victorious and proud, yet showed only the telltale signs of sad concern (the lowered eyelids, the tightened eyebrows). Thankfully she didn't offer comfort; she knew it would go unaccepted.

He left his seat and turned towards the window, blindly noting the neighbor's third trip to the nearby market, the unmarked car pulling away from the building-all those boring, trivial details which held no use for him now. After a time he chose to reply: "Did our brother hint at my watching the flat? And don't try to lie-the answer's written all over your face, and Dear Brother's shoddy attempts at surveillance on my behalf are useless. You'll be glad to know I disconnected the cameras in the living room and bedrooms."

"Dear Brother didn't have to tell me," she retorted, "although we both know how fond he is of being the bearer of 'unknown' information." She sighed. "And his flair for melodrama grows with age, as does his paranoia. I've got a collection of cameras from over the years; I'd considered using them as his birthday present this year."

She was rewarded with a small chuckle. "How rebellious we are."

She smiled back. "Hmm. Don't think you can change the subject that easily. If you're going to watch the flat this constantly, then at least have the decency to give me updates so that I'll know how to prepare for your ever-changing moods-or else pick a different hobby. And, no, playing the violin doesn't count. It's difficult enough to keep you hidden when the neighbors barely believe that I've gained a sudden fondness for classical violin."

"It helps me think" was the instinctive reply.

"Then what in hell are you thinking about, if not him? You don't read, you don't research, and you certainly don't take cases anymore. Why can't you just drop this ridiculous scheme and admit that you're useless without him?"

All at once, the questions were knives, stabbing through the firm composure he'd so carefully maintained, bringing the emotion so close to spilling out like angry, hot drops of blood. He spun around, ready to attack, but could find no response. Silence was safe, he decided. Silence had protected him. Silence continued to protect his friends.

Without a word, he picked up the violin, but in a surprising fury, she snatched it from his hands and shoved him in the corner, eyes blazing and furious. "What the hell is it going to take? Why won't you wake up for five seconds to see what you're doing to him-to yourself?" she spat out.

He could have been astonished, amused, annoyed, but all he felt was a deep-seated anger, pulsing and burning in his veins. "Don't you understand? I can't do anything! Nothing but sit here and waste my brain, waste my life so they can keep breathing and living happy lives! That's what I'm left with: the great Sherlock Holmes, dead but alive, alive but dead, forever silent as the grave to the only people who matter!" Disgusted with himself, he turned away. Such sentiment!-what had killed him and continued to fester day after day.

And yet there were horrible, terrible, useless tears in her eyes as she responded. "Then let me help! I want to help, Sherlock."

"You can't." An eternity of feeling lay in that single phrase.

Silence.

She sat down, took her head in her hands, hugged herself but not him. (Never him.)

Thirty-two seconds later, she stiffened and looked at him with such bright eyes. "But I can help," she whispered slowly. "If you'll let me...I can help John."

His eyes flew to hers, met the desperation and hope that filled them. Perhaps...this could be his final act, the true goodbye. This would be atonement.

In the end, a single word sealed his fate, and whatever consequences lay with it. "Fine."


	2. Ch 1: Ghosts That We Knew

In the past weeks, John had become a new man.

-That is, not to say "a better man." A changed man, absolutely. A lonely man, yes. A broken man...perhaps. Broken of habits, to be certain, and connections and the life had been thrust into but at the same time had accepted and desperately sought after.

Sherlock had done that, had broken him very much like the army had so long ago. When once he had order and routine, going to bed and waking at predestined hours, behaving as was respectable and proper and predictable-all of that structure had come crashing down once the world's only consulting detective had invited him to a flatshare. From then on, though John was stripped of everything he had been, Sherlock stayed the same: frustratingly impulsive, maddeningly insensible, and impossible in every way possible. This impossible and brilliant Sherlock had taken away the support Watson had leaned on for too long (quite literally and figuratively), and had watched with the bright, inquisitive gaze to see if he would stand or crumple.

But Watson had run. From that moment on, he never stopped running-to what, only God knew. All that had mattered was the chase. Too late he had seen what or who he had been chasing after. Too soon he had caught it. By then it was too late.

And what was left now? Not the seasoned army doctor. Not the confirmed bachelor. Not the friend. Just a new man. A quite alone and very empty man.

Sure, he maintained a semblance of care (did the shopping, took out the trash, showered and brushed every morning), because Mrs. Hudson was watching. Perhaps also because Sherlock would sneer at his behavior, his sentiment. Perhaps he had been right about sentiment in the first place.

Either way, this care extended only so far. Once away from Mrs. Hudson's scrutiny, he would just sit. Hours would pass like drips of water suspended on the kitchen faucet, waiting for the right moment, then falling, falling, falling, only to break and await the next in line. The past hour had felt like this, floating ever so gently on the rim of time, waiting, holding its breath before the plunge, now falling, falling, fall-

Briiiing!

The phone rang, shrill and angry. His brows furrowed of their own accord, weighing the possibilities with every subsequent ring. Only on its last note did he choose to stretch over and push the button.

"Yes, hello?"

"Hi, I'm looking for"-a pause-"John Watson?" The voice was soft, uncertain, and unmistakably female.

"This is he. Um, may I ask who's calling?"

"Mr. Watson, this is Ella from the neighborhood library, and I have just a few questions for you. Can you spare a moment of time?"

He suppressed a sigh. "Yes, that's fine."

The voice lightened considerably. "Thank you, Mr. Watson! I appreciate it. First, is it true that your current address is"—a pause—"2-2-1-B Baker Street?"

A small weight pulled down the corners of his lips. "Yes, that's right."

"Wonderful! And is a Mr. Sherlock Holmes still sharing that address?"

That small weight became a boulder, rolling and thundering towards the small shred of composure he had left, threatening to crush it heartlessly. Without warning, his left hand began to tremble, but whether from anger or fear or danger he could not tell. He closed it into a fist (perhaps to stop the trembling, perhaps to hit the nearby wall).

After a few seconds of this inner struggle, John replied evenly and coolly, "I don't see how that's important."

The voice became hurried and anxious once more. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Watson, but let me explain. A few months ago, Mr. Holmes borrowed a few items from this library, and these items were never returned. Now, this sort of thing does happen all the time and probably doesn't warrant a personal call such as this one, but the borrowed items are of, well, a special nature; they're very old and can very easily be damaged if not handled with proper care. I have no doubt that Mr. Holmes has taken excellent care of these texts, as in the past, but they do need to be returned so that we can maintain the quality of the texts. That being said, I need to contact Mr. Holmes as soon as possible."

He listened to the explanation, and though completely uninterested by the matter, he felt it was his duty to respond: "I understand."

"So, then, could you, Mr. Watson, put me in contact with Mr. Holmes?"

His inevitable reply stung, simply because he had no other to give. "Not possible."

John could sense the woman's confusion through the mobile, through the radio signals and wires that simultaneously connected and distanced them. Her answer came unsteadily. "But isn't it true that Mr. Holmes lives with you?"

"Not anymore." And in that one statement lay his happy past, his lonely present, and his empty future.

The voice's pause echoed the quiet that had suddenly stolen over his mind. After a moment, it slowly began, "Has Mr. Holmes moved to another location?"

With a small, bitter chuckle, John realized that he could answer "yes," but perhaps for self-preservation chose not to. "No" came the short, clipped reply. "Sherlock is—" what? Gone. Passed. Not here. Six feet under. In a better place, leaving John in a worse place. A ghost, doomed to creep around the edges of his memory. An illusion, a trick of light, a dream made barely visible by a desperate mind.

_Get a grip, John. _

"Sherlock is dead." The words burst forward like bullets, the sounds tumbling to the ground like shell casings. Then silence.

The voice grew small. "Mr. Watson, if I had known…"

He cleared his throat, and duty took over once again. "It's alright. You were just doing your job."

"Well, thank you. Now the situation is…much clearer." (And more awkward, John surmised.) "If you would allow it, Mr. Watson, we could send someone around to collect the texts at your convenience; it's the standard procedure for this situation."

In a flash, John saw hands—female hands—touching the bookcase, the fireplace, the chair, the skull, the bed. All at once the flat was filled with strangeness and defiled by those hands which knew nothing about Sherlock and should never know anything about the wonderful life that was no more. No, this would not happen. No unfamiliar woman would mar the one place that still housed his friend.

The words came rushing out of their own accord. "No, that's alright. I'll bring them in. It's nothing at all."

"Are you sure, Mr. Watson?"

"Yes. Mmhmm."

"Thank you. The texts in question are _Sleights of Hand, Tricks, and Traps of Ancient China_ and _Galileo's Solar System_."

A small smile crept across his lips, and he said goodbye. After a moment of unsettling silence, he pushed himself out of the chair and onto his feet. A quick glance around the flat confirmed his fears: that he was surrounded by books and clutter, neither of which had been touched in the previous weeks.

"Right," he muttered to himself. "If I were Sherlock, where would I hide two very old books?"

A whim made him inspect a nearby stack, but with no success. Another attempt with another stack gave the same result. He sighed and rubbed his forehead in frustration. Then, as if suddenly overcome by the enormity of the situation, the depth of his loss, he buried his head in his hands. "Oh, god," he whispered. "Really, really wish you were here."

Miles away, connected to the bleak scene by a computer screen, piercing eyes examined John's actions with uncanny interest. Long fingers drummed on the table with nervous energy, beating staccato and forte against the wood surface. Finally the nervous energy was released as the fingers flew across the keys of a mobile.

Well done. Perhaps you should try a career in theatre. –S

The reply was not long in coming.

I try. How long until he gets here? –Ella

An hour. Maybe two. Don't give him the paper today. –S

I remember, big brother. Calm down. –Ella

I'm perfectly calm. –S

I hardly believe that. –Ella

He gave no reply, just turned back to the screen.

Author's Note: The texts named in this chapter are entirely fictional; any similarity or reference to actual works is accidental.


	3. Ch 2: Thistle and Weeds

Stray pigeons and wandering strangers chattered around him, filling the air with exclamations and calls and gossip. The crisp wind welcomed this chatter, embracing it like a mother and carrying it to and fro as if to proudly show off its noisy child. These sounds were likewise born to John Watson in an attempt to encourage him to join in, but to no avail. Nowadays he passed through the life surrounding him like a rock jutting from a river's edge—always silent, always stoic, and never moved.

As he had a hundred times before, John mourned his transformation into this human rock. Though before he would have chuckled at a child's game or marveled at the smiling blue sky, now these events went unnoticed and unappreciated. The excitement was gone, and with it his ability to capture life's exciting moments. And this change had come so forcibly and suddenly that he had changed before he realized that he was changing. Even more frightening was the realization that he could find no way to change back.

So John was left with this: the mundane rituals of normal life, to be completed with false smiles and few complaints. If he allowed himself to be honest, he would stomp off of the street and headed for home. He would scream obscenities at every passerby for having fulfilled, happy lives. He would chuck the oh-so-valuable library books in the Thames, or in a dumpster, or at a wall.

But instead, he chose to gingerly carry the oh-so-valuable books not to the Thames or a dumpster, but to the safety of the library in which they belonged. (Because, after all, that was his duty.)

And so he arrived at the neighborhood library, the books in his hand and a well-hidden anger in his heart. Stepping through the glass doors with a sigh, John was greeted by rows and rows of neat, organized bookcases, clusters of half-filled tables and chairs, and the soft yellow light that floated in between. Immediately he felt like an intruder, interrupting the quiet, tranquil order with his anger and bitterness.

"Can I help you with something?" a hushed voice called.

John realized that he stood frozen in the entryway like a skittish child. _Pull yourself together, John. _He forced himself to walk to the front counter and meet the young woman waiting there.

When he did so, he received a jolt—he found himself staring into eyes he had closed weeks ago. But that was impossible. That was utterly, entirely impossible. No other eyes had that depth, that irreplaceable array of colors that shone so brightly as they examined and hypothesized and concluded. These were none other than Sherlock's eyes.

"Sir?"

The word jerked him from his reverie, and he found that, no, these eyes did not belong to his departed friend, but to a woman—a woman with an inquisitive face marked with small, pink lips, an angled jaw, and soft eyebrows framing those impossible eyes. John's mind barely took time to register the dark bangs and braid that mimicked the color of the chestnut-wood desk, or the pale blazer pulled over a printed dress. Her eyes had left him reeling, and now he stumbled to match his words to his thoughts.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. "I'm just here to return some books." He vaguely held up the two, but didn't think to offer them up.

"I can take them from you." She smiled and held out a small, slender hand.

He handed them to her, grateful to finally function like a normal human being. Then, with a small nod, he began to turn away.

Her voice stopped him again. "Are you Dr. Watson?"

"John, yeah," he replied, turning around. How did she know his name? "Have we met before?"

"No," she chuckled. "But I'm Ella, the one who called you about these texts. Ella Whiting," she added.

"Oh," was all he could say with a forced smile. "Well, it's nice to meet you."

"Thank you again for returning these," she continued. "I know it seems absolutely trivial, but these books are very important to me—to the library, I mean—and I feel horrible that you had to turn them in, with your situation and all—"

"Don't worry about it," he interrupted. "No problem at all." He needed no reminder of his "situation." Feeling that the deed was done, John turned to go once again, but was held back by a small shred of curiosity. "Do you—" he hesitated, then began again. "Do you know when Sherlock, or Mr. Holmes, picked these up?"

Eyebrows furrowed, she gave him a strange look. "It must have been a few months ago… but if you like, I can look up the exact date for you."

"That won't be necessary. Just curious."

"How so?"

Her question slightly disturbed him, partially because he was asking himself the same question. "Well," began John, "they're not exactly the sort of thing Sherlock reads." _Shit,_ he thought. "Used to read," he muttered quietly.

A strange, faraway look entered her impossible eyes. "I suppose we all have our secrets," she answered. Then with a small shake of her head, she transformed back into the friendly, polite librarian. "In fact, Mr. Holmes was interested in quite a bit of our special collection items; I remember he especially loved old law and biology texts."

"He would." The begrudging reply was nearly inaudible.

Yet, somehow, the librarian must have heard it. "Well, you would know," she delivered with a playful smile.

At that ever-so-painful reminder, John's fists clenched themselves together, and his jaw followed suit. But as years in the military had given him the ability to mask his feelings, his face became blank. At this point, with the painful reminders of Sherlock pouring in daily, the response was almost involuntary, instantaneous and mechanical.

When he chose to fix his eyes on her face again, her hands had flown to her mouth, and only the eyes remained, wide and filled with horror. He was instantly confused: had this un-extraordinary (though pretty) librarian really seen through his emotional armor? Was he falling apart that easily?

Apparently so.

"Dr. Watson," she began, "I'm so sorry." A shaky sigh, and her hands shakier still. "I've been terrible—terribly insensitive, really. And awkward. God, I need to stop talking."

He held back the sudden urge to chuckle as the librarian's polite exterior crumbled. "It's fine, really."

Her eyes filled with gratitude for his forgiveness. A slight smile grew in the corner of her mouth. "Now, I know for a fact that you're not interested in my work, but would you like to know which books Mr. Holmes looked at?"

_No._ His mind immediately supplied the answer. He would not fall apart—not here, not now, and certainly not with her. Thus avoidance was absolutely necessary. "Actually, I'd like to hear about your work."

While surprised at first, she transformed herself into a library tour guide, and things quickly became a blur to John. Although he did retain that she was both a research specialist and a well-known book curator, the librarian might have spoken for hours on the process of caring for and preserving ancient texts or on the library's plumbing system or, for all he knew, on the various types of tobacco—he lost track after the first minute. It didn't matter, anyway; the sound of her soft, lighthearted voice engulfed the misery and the memories that had flooded his thoughts for far too long.

And so, after some indeterminable amount of time, John found himself turning once again to leave the library, now with a fragmentary peace of mind. Smiling at the young woman, he offered his hand. "Seeing the library has been a very nice change of scene. Thank you very much, Ms…."

"Whiting," she supplied. "Or Ella. You could call me Ella. It's my name too, I suppose."

He chuckled. "Okay, Ella. Have a good one."

With that, he spun on his heel and strode outside, just missing her very sad reply: "I hope you do too, John."

**Please leave comments/critiques! I want to know what you guys think!**


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